Plummet
by potatochip53
Summary: Plummet /ˈpləmət/ Verb to move downward, typically rapidly and freely without control, from a higher to a lower level.


The skyscrapers in Metropolis glittered with jolly flashing lights. The center of town had been decked out with stockings and wreaths and Christmas trees covered in lights and ornaments. Traffic was heavy as people bustled throughout the streets, a jovial aura filled the air. It was Christmas time. The jolliest time of the year. A time for people to laugh and sing and be nice to each other for simply a single month. Superman flew over the city with lights wound into his suit to light up the big 'S'. People cheered and jostled and jumped as he flew over. The Kryptonian smiled.

A ways away, the city of Gotham lay dull and silent. Gotham was well known as the crime capital and it showed. The buildings reflected no evidence of lights or stockings or even a meager candy cane. Town Square was home to a few flickering street lights, just bright enough to illuminate the crumbling brick and the people in the corners who would rather stay hidden. Batman watched over it all from his perch on a rather tall building.

The Dark Knight was to wait and watch over his corruption ridden city. He was to be the vigilante that watched from the shadows. The anti-hero that did as much harm as good. Batman put away the bad guys in his own way. Half of the police force turned a blind eye to most of the crime. The other half, including Commissioner Jim Gordon, kept a wary eye on the corrupted cops. Justice in Gotham was a long forgotten word.

Batman controlled as much crime in the city as he could. He knocked out muggers, gagged rapists, and unmasked mafia. He fought as much as one man could fight. The only thing he received in return was scars. The ropey white line of an old stab wound from an inexperienced criminal who got lucky. A torn Achilles as a result of an awkward landing after a quick getaway. The black and purple and blue of freshly forming bruises that managed to break blood vessels just below the surface of the epithelial layer. Batman sacrificed his body for Gotham. Bruce Wayne sacrificed his mind.

Bruce Wayne acted the part of a billionaire playboy persona. He left behind his dignity and put on a mask. It really kind of felt awful sometimes. To know that he wore a mask in both night and day. But Batman had to watch over his city and Bruce had to play the part as well. High society parties were an oddly popular place to gain information about the criminal underworld.

In this instance for example, Bruce had just returned from a Christmas themed gala that had the purpose of selling the artwork of orphans. In the 3 hour event, Bruce had managed to obtain no less than three tips pertaining to where the most recent mafia hideout was, a few well thought out speculations on who the leader was, and at least a couple of possible locations as to where the next meeting would be located. Currently, Bruce was entering the main room of Wayne Manor. He had already dismissed Alfred as he knew the gala would run late.

Now, Bruce sighed as he tossed his suit jacket onto a chair and sank to the floor in his undershirt after grabbing a drink. He hated getting like this. Batman was supposed to be strong, indestructible. A pinprick of light in this hopeless, corrupt, crime-ridden city. But Bruce… Bruce was the weak link. He could only be Batman for so long. All the Dark Knight had to do was fight. He was just required to ignore the pain and soldier on and save the city. When Bruce took off the suit; however, he felt startlingly human. Sickeningly human. His face and emotions were visible and that wasn't good because humans think too much and feel too little.

The billionaire swirled the glass of red wine in his grip. The red liquid sloshed around, vividly red and akin to blood. Sometimes, Bruce didn't want to be Batman. He wanted to move to Metropolis and finally take a break from the doom and gloom of Gotham's hopeless future. He wanted to take Clark up on his endless invitations of lunch. He wanted to look up and watch Superman fly over. He wanted to turn over in bed and scoot closer to the abnormally warm body next to him with startling blue eyes. He wanted to see the Christmas lights sparkling on buildings and feel the camaraderie of citizen helping citizen instead of countless muggings and robberies. He wanted to walk out into the kitchen of a tiny apartment to find Clark making breakfast. But most of all, Bruce just wanted to go home.

But home wasn't there. Wayne Manor was stark and cold. His parents didn't occupy their rooms anymore. They hadn't for a long time. Bruce Wayne's extroverted persona should fill the Manor's walls up with warmth and laughter and the feeling of being lived in. It didn't. Gotham City itself was but a wasteland filled with the scum that couldn't make it in Metropolis or Central City or even the only slightly fucking better Star City. Batman was as much a criminal as he was a hero.

Bruce Wayne would never settle down. Batman would never let his walls down. It was as simple and clear cut as that. Bruce was damned to be alone. Just a statement of fact. He stitched himself together physically day after day. Night after night. It was all the same. Go to parties in the day, then at night bring in the criminals, go back to the Manor, get stitched up, literally pass out in bed, start it all over again the next day. Bruce was pretty sure he was at least 40% stitches by now. The thing is while stitches can hold together your physical being, there's no way to heal a mental wound.

Being Batman was beginning to take a toll on Bruce's well being. He just wanted to let everything go for just one second. He wanted a taste of what it was like to have somebody care about him. When he was younger, the Christmas tree would always be filled with presents and the Wayne family would have a nice, elegant dinner before moving on to open gifts. Now, the last surviving member of the Wayne family sat alone with a limp bowl of Ramen. He looked at the tree that held no gifts. The most recent injuries ached under his expensive suit and he leaned his head back on the couch and closed his eyes.

If Bruce concentrated, he could envision Superman sitting beside him on the sofa, laughing and throwing an arm around his boyfriends shoulders. The tree was stuffed with gifts and the scrumptious smell of cooking turkey wafted through the air. Light Christmas music danced in the background as the city of Gotham was finally lit up with colorful lights and stockings and trees. Everything was perfect.

Then Bruce's god forsaken analytical mind took over and reality washed over him like a tidal wave that he wished would drown him. It engulfed him and he realized that he could never have that perfect dream. It was just that, a dream. His kitchen would never again be filled with the fresh scents of a home cooked meal. Gotham would never heal from its deepening roots of corruption. And most importantly, Clark would never love him.

Nobody was present in the room while these thoughts raced through Bruce's mind like sparks from an errant flame. But if they had, if they had been paying any attention to him at all, they would've seen it. They would have seen the spark leave his once fiery eyes even though he wasn't yet dead.

Bruce's shoulders slumped. His body ached from the constant fighting and war. His eyes burned and his limbs shook. Bruce swished the bloody wine around in his glass again, watching it swirl like his own blood going down the drain as it left his body. He looked up at the tree. Bruce Wayne stared at the empty Christmas tree with scant branches and falling needles and spoke to himself.

"I never really stood a chance, did I?"


End file.
